Free Death Called to the Bar by David Dickinson

absurdly young-looking man called Richard Gibson whose uniform was slightly too big for him. Looking at Sergeant Gibson, Powerscourt wondered if his mother thought he hadn’t finished
growing yet. And piled up on the table in front of the trio was an enormous heap of paper, the typed records of the detectives’ interviews with the inhabitants of Queen’s Inn, and the
two black notebooks where Powerscourt kept his own records of his interviews. And, to complete the display, several pairs of scissors.
    Chief Inspector Beecham set out the rules. ‘We’re most grateful to you, Lord Powerscourt, for inviting us here. What we want to do is to sort all this lot out in terms of time of
day.’ He pointed to the small mountain of paper. ‘We have here the records of all the people we have talked to in the Inn. Sergeant Gibson, despite his tender years, is an expert not
only in the shorthand but in the typing department. The training school of the Metropolitan Police believe his is the fastest hand they have ever seen, faster than all those young ladies you see
going off to adorn the offices of the City of London. Now, the procedure is quite clear. If the transcript mentions a time between eight and nine then it goes over there.’ The Chief Inspector
pointed to the relevant cardboard label. Powerscourt noticed that the nails were bitten down to the quick. Perhaps the detective was very highly strung.
    ‘And if,’ he continued, ‘the interviewee saw him twice at different times of day, then we just cut the paper at the relevant point and move the new section to the later time. I
don’t think it should take us very long.’
    Gradually the piles of paper began to decrease. And all three of them found it easier to talk as they entered their material under the relevant time. A ghostly history of Dauntsey’s last
hours began to emerge, a plainchant between two policemen and an investigator that followed a man to his death.
    ‘Eight thirty or just afterwards. Dauntsey seen by the porter coming into the Inn.’ This in a solemn voice from the Chief Inspector.
    ‘Eight forty, clerk of chambers reports exchanging Good Mornings as he enters his chambers.’ This from the sergeant in a nervous voice.
    ‘Eight forty-five, meeting with Edward in his room about forthcoming fraud case.’ Powerscourt, wondering how much effort it cost Edward to pass on the information.
    ‘Ten fifteen, meeting with clerk about forthcoming cases.’ The Chief Inspector again.
    ‘Ten forty-five, leaves his chambers. Meeting in chambers of Woodford Stewart about forthcoming fraud case.’
    ‘Twelve thirty, leaves Inn with Stewart, lunches in the Garrick, returns shortly after two.’
    The piles were growing around their cardboard sentries, Powerscourt noticed. But the bulk of the replies were still on the table in front of him. He presumed that the feast, with the largest
number of lawyers present, must also have contained the largest number of sightings. The paper round continued. Powerscourt paid particular attention when it reached five o’clock. The doctors
were still not sure what time the poison must have been administered but the earliest possible hour was five o’clock.
    ‘Ten past five,’ said the sergeant. Dauntsey had been in the library since four thirty-five, looking up some precedent for the fraud case. ‘Dauntsey back in his own chambers.
Has tea with Edward during further meeting about fraud case. Edward leaves Dauntsey still wearing normal clothes at five forty-five.’
    ‘Six o’clock, Dauntsey leaves his rooms in evening clothes to attend pre-feast drinks party in the Treasurer’s chambers in Fountain Court.’ The Chief Inspector added his
paper to the pile and shuffled it into a neat package.
    ‘Two of these reports, sir.’ the sergeant held two pieces of paper aloft as if they were suspects. ‘Unknown person spotted on staircase of Dauntsey’s rooms shortly after
five forty-five. Another witness saw the